


I Thought I Saw Your Face Today

by lichtuitmixa



Category: Football RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-22
Updated: 2013-07-22
Packaged: 2017-12-21 00:33:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,202
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/893713
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lichtuitmixa/pseuds/lichtuitmixa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Xabi didn’t know what to say. He was caught between himself and the keys in his hand. He glanced at them briefly before pushing them back deep into his trousers and looking up at Steven with a knowing smile.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Thought I Saw Your Face Today

I.

But Xabi’s imagination waxed without control, and things only felt okay when he was occupied. He tossed Jon’s nappies in the bin before picking up his son, murmuring songs in Spanish as he walked them out of the nursery.

Things were fine at home. He brewed coffee in the morning while Nagore breastfed the baby, he took out the trash, wired out Jon’s night light, kept the plates in the right shelves and pulled the blinds open at first light of new morning. He’d gotten so used to Liverpool that he tended to forget to turn the heater on when the weather was especially thin.

Nagore had told him off over it once or twice before, but Xabi kept slipping up nonetheless. It irritated her and, once or twice since, he twisted his wrists turning the controls with furious exaggeration before slamming the front door on his way out. On both occasions, he didn’t take his coat with him, and the cold Liverpool breeze sluiced his warm Spanish skin.

Smoking was done outside, in the garage or out in the backyard. Nagore was giving up the habit, and Xabi was willing to follow. But until either of them could stand missing the smell, they took turns every other day. 

Above everything else, they loved each other. 

Nagore pulled the covers up, Xabi blew air into Jon’s belly button and Jon did his part warming his parents’ hearts. Arms winding over each other, and, whether the heater was turned on or not, the Liverpool cold seeped under the window sill anyway but it was still home. 

II.

Fernando knocked the ball across, laughing, and Carra went running after it, Daniel hot on his heels. Training was finished, the Liverpool sun slowly breaking up the clouds, soaking up the moisture from the clear cut grass beneath their cleats.

Otherwise, up at Melwood, Xabi was cramping. There were things he left unanswered that week leading to the game with Inter. He meant to come back, but the repercussions of incidents in the prior months had snowballed into such a weight that his uniform seemed virtually unrecognizable. 

It’s not like he was gone for long, but long enough apparently. He did his own thinking, correlating observations as he sat on the hospital chair outside Nagore’s ward. His phone kept ringing with congratulatory messages; he only bothered to open Rafa’s and shoved the other 50 back into his pocket. 

Months later, the Euro’s and the extraordinary feeling of orange and yellow confetti falling at their knees procured effervescent smiles none of them got tired of. 

The trophy was a different shape from the last one Xabi ever held, slimming around the mouth like a human neck, handles curving protrusions on the side. The silver gleamed beneath the lights, and they all agreed it was heavy, but somehow that didn’t register with the Liverpool midfielder. 

Something wet beaded down his face, and startled, he reached up to wipe it away, the telling sound of thunder crossing over head to mark its great return. A shadow hovered over his sitting frame, and Xabi looked up to find a winded Fernando reaching for his arms.

“Come on. The others have all cleaned up.”

They went up the tunnel in momentary silence, the noise of showers bristling the tiled floors and laughter echoing from a long distance ahead. Fernando looked at Xabi and nudged him in the shoulders.

“¿Que tal?” 

Xabi grinned a little. “Bien.”

“How’s Nagore and Jon?”

“They’re doing fine. Jon hace unos pocos sonidos. And he spits burbujas when he’s amused.”

“Just like his papá, eh?” teased Fernando. Xabi made a face and laughed, shoving Fernando to the side.

The younger man wobbled back, grinning, but regained his balance almost immediately. As they proceeded to turn the corner, he pulled Xabi back. No longer sporting a smile, Fernando looked at his senior with concern, slipping off his headband as he lowered his voice. 

“I have to ask you something.” 

Xabi’s brows furrowed and he crossed his arms. “Que?”

 

III.

His keys chimed in the pit of his trouser pockets, Fernando in even strides to his left. Xabi shifted his training bag, running his sleeves up as the weight carried the strap down. He turned to the younger Spaniard, questioningly.

“How the hell did you find out anyway?”

Fernando snorted. “I’m not stupid. Just because I haven’t been here for the past 3 years doesn’t mean I don’t know what’s going on,” 

“Si,” replied Xabi, “But who told you? Carra? Sami? Pepe?”

Fernando shrugged. 

“When he started to talk more about you, I just figured something was up. And then last week happened and,” Fernando grabbed Xabi by the shoulders and shook him gently, “He really misses you, amigo.”

Xabi felt his heart stop a bit, his mind contracting around a solid subject matter despite efforts of trying to shift his focus to the floor. The polished floor ended on its own as they walked out into the parking lot, the ground changing texture beneath his sneakers as he began moving on rough cement. But he was left behind in his own head, thoughts threading out in an unwanted and distracting manner.

They had their days. Xabi looked back into the ones when things had been clearer, when it felt okay to sit back and watch each other, or hold each other, or sift through complimentary wine bottles then fuck. Or make love. Everything recurred in his head like film, vivid and unresponsive, and he barely heard Fernando say goodbye. 

The drizzle of rain beat on the back of his neck, and he picked up his pace. He pulled his keys out only to realize they were his locker key. His stomach dropped.

“Shit.”

 

IV. 

Steven just happened to walk along. He just happened to be the last one out. Nobody else just happened to be around. They stared at each other through the misting fall of light rain, Xabi’s hair soaking up the weather report like a matted rag.

“Hey,” smiled Steven from the shelter of his umbrella, walking closer until Xabi felt trapped against his own car. 

The Englishman hoisted his umbrella higher, shading Xabi from the portent rainfall, their protruding bags sacrificed.

“I haven’t talked to you in a long while.” 

Xabi nodded, holding his breath as the discomfort of their proximity inflated his self-consciousness. “Yeah. I’ve missed you.”

Steven’s smile inched a bit wider. “Yeah? Are you going home?”

Xabi let out an exasperated laugh. “I was, but I think I left my keys,” replied Xabi, shaking his keys around uselessly. 

Steven chuckled, a ludicrous look on his face, and Xabi's heart warmed a bit. “Do you want a ride or - ?”

Xabi glanced at Steven’s car: a silver Range Rover gleaming under the patter of raindrops, the one of, at most, four other cars still perched in the area. He’d been on it many times before, collecting rogue memories that seemed ever more distant now.

He used to sit back on the leather upholstery, jostle with the radio and its loose tuning button, and pull a cigarette or two out the windows when Steven would roll them down in the open highway. They pulled up in nearby abandoned estates, or beaches, or sight-seeing cliff sides that offered tourists the wealth of sea waves hitting the coastal rocks. Most of the time, they just stayed in and waited for the sunset, locked in deep conversations, or deep kisses and thrusts as the cold Liverpool wind seeped through. 

He often padded the rug with bare feet coming home from these incursions, sand and water and grass and hotel wax likely caught in between the fibres – unless Steven already vacuumed -

Of course, Steven already vacuumed. Alex prefered it that way.

Xabi didn’t know what to say. He was caught between himself and the keys in his hand. He glanced at them briefly before pushing them back deep into his trousers and looking up at Steven with a knowing smile.

 

V.

They made their way up familiar routes, not essentially familiar because they were heading anywhere but because they’ve been there before. They didn’t start talking immediately: they were engaged in self-obligations so large it was a miracle they both fit in the car at all.

Steven kept stealing glances at Xabi while the Spaniard, aware of the attention, determinedly kept his focus on the wiper moving across the windshield. The truth was, despite measures of preparation both men probably took in theory, or in practice when alone any other time, neither midfielder knew how to deal with it.

It'd been a long time since they were last together like this, and there was nothing familiar about the silence. Xabi kept getting distracted by Steven’s insinuating coughs, above which he began to notice Steven was taking the longest detours to get him home. The awkwardness was unbelievable, and the social paralysis seeped down their spine until the tension in their shoulders spread to the back of their thighs, and Xabi was sure he was sweating.

It was only right that Steven spoke first.

“How’s the family? How’s Jon?” 

Though, it eased nothing. “Good. Jon’s fine. He can catch moving objects now, at least, I mean, with his eyes.”

“We should go for a picnic, together, you think?”

“I suppose. I’ll ask Nagore about it.”

“Alex would love that. The girls always enjoy having someone to play with. If,” Steven turned to catch Xabi’s gaze as he ran them into an empty alley, “You raise him here then they could even go to the same schools.”

The underlying question thawed the chip on Xabi’s shoulders, and just like that he relaxed, sinking into the passenger seat like he belonged there. It signified nothing though, no final conclusion or enlivening return to the old romance they used to have. Xabi found it ridiculous he could even bear the thought. 

“Xabi - ”

“I’m only staying as long as I’m wanted.”

Perhaps, it was uncalled for. Perhaps, it was the right answer. Nevertheless, it was trigger point. 

Steven parked them behind a busy restaurant, the black awnings above the backdoor dented from age and the will of falling rain. He killed the engine and ran a hand over his head, reclining on his seat to get a better share of even breathing. He didn’t know where to pick up from that. He didn’t even know where he wanted to come out of this.

Between pursuing the bullshit and just caving into the engorged temptation of picking a fight that’s been put off for so goddamn long, Steven decided he just wanted to see this one through. 

“That’s unfair, you know.” He said quietly.

Xabi turned to him. “What is?”

“That you’re laying the option for other people to decide. Why can’t you just stay here because you want to?”

Xabi blinked. Because it’s not my home, he wanted to say but that was undetermined in itself. And he wasn’t new to complacent dishonesty but right now, there was hardly even any space for direct lying. He shook his head.

“I know what you’re asking me to do, Steven. I can’t do that anymore.”

“What? To fuck? You think that’s all I’m asking from you?” hollered Steven furiously. Xabi cringed. “You think I’m not capable of things beyond that?”

“Fuck off, Steven,” yelled Xabi back, “It’s not like you’ve been the best boyfriend the past few months. You’ve been keeping me in the shade, hardly talking to me and now you show up with your fucking car and you think we can go back to normal?”

Xabi had a point and Steven knew it. It wasn’t like they appeared to be anything outside the hotel rooms, or Carra’s summerhouse or Steven’s car; everything had felt so damn surreal, and the obligations weren’t written on stone. There was a solemn agreement that things had been pretty shitty since Athens, or even before that but they couldn’t bother to map back that far. 

To everything else that followed, neither of them really made the effort. The wedding, Nagore’s pregnancy, even the semi-finals took a toll on them. This, conclusively, would be the first they even acknowledged the remains of a steady fallout.

“I want you to stay. Will that make up your mind?”

Xabi wasn’t thinking when he said it but the meaning wasn’t lost on Steven, “I don’t know. I need to be happy.”

Steven held him with sad eyes, the rain outside rolling back to leave quiet save for the sound of their breathing. The Liverpool captain turned away and Xabi felt his heart break into pieces, no longer hinged on the safety net of the guilt that used to press his chest in. 

Then Steven wound his fingers around Xabi’s and the Spaniard stared at their clasped hands, surprised but not necessarily unsure of how to react. 

“I love you,” 

Xabi’s eyes began to well up, and sunshine, so late in the day, splattered across the hood, and the warmth was universal. His body shook as he let himself cry, a release of sorts emancipating him - finally. Trembling, he curled his fingers around Steven’s in return, bringing himself to whisper softly, “I know.”

**Author's Note:**

> I originally wrote and posted this on LiveJournal during the peak of my Football Slash RPF days. This story is set prior to Xabi's departure in 2009, during the heat of circulating rumors about Xabi being sold by the club.


End file.
